Depths
by Chibikat the Canuck
Summary: The waters that lead to Jack Sparrow are dangerous in many ways. JackWill, hints of past BootstrapJack, other assorted pairings both het and slash.


**Rating:** PG for now, but I'll bump it up before this course has run.

**Disclaimer:** Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, and they own most of the world now, so that should come as no surprise. I'm making no two pennies to rub together off of this.

**Pairings:** Mainly Jack/Will, with hints of past Bootstrap/Jack, and other pairings with other characters that are SURPRISES lolz (read: I plan very little out, so who knows what'll happen?).

**Summary:** The waters that lead to Jack Sparrow are dangerous in many ways.

**Author's Note:** This is my first PoTC fic; after thoroughly drowning myself in the massive ocean of Harry Potter fandom, I took a breathing break from fanficcery - but, after seeing Dead Man's Chest, I suppose I'm back into it. w00t?

At any rate, I hope you enjoy.

-

The days and weeks have begun to conspire with each other, those mutinous dogs. I feel 'em whispering behind my back – talking of shanghaiing the upcoming months, too – and then they shove a bottle of rum into my fist, so I'm just more suspicious now.

I've chased time like any whore worth two shillings, hunted her down with pistols and ships and swords and words – plenty of words, lots of words, we both _love_ words – but the slippery wench blends in. She's spreading her legs somewhere in the rocks, the trees, the sea, and I'm just a fool with wood and rum to get by on. I'll chase the bitch until I run her through, which won't happen, but it _could_, and there's the prettiness of it all…the chase. The rouge on her bare cheeks, if I may be so bold. Which I am, if I may be so bold to say I may be so bold…

Time. Come on, love – not afraid now, are you? Nothing and no one to fear for her. She's always there, she doesn't really ever leave, because I know if she left me, I'd be ruined, and I'm not quite all there yet. She's behind and in front, thick and sweet, right in the air, drunk and speedy as I'm drunk and stuck, and good companions we be. A fine marriage, a smart match; rather poisonous, of course, but anything worth anything in all this everything is good for nothing if it doesn't hurt you. Aye, time. We'll destroy each other soon, my wise and fair strumpet – and we'll drink until we've both, finally, stopped chasing each other.

I wonder if Bootstrap thinks of time like I do, now. I wonder what he thinks of me.

I wonder what his son thinks of me.

-

His father's knife, responsible for the partial gutting of a rotted table inside the shack, was tucked safely in his boot; even through his pant leg, Will could feel the perpetual cold of the blade. It was a constant reminder – he'd been having moments, recently, where he would awaken, in the dark, and think he was still on that hellish ship, condemned alongside his father. He would smell brine in the air, feel it stiffening his clothes, attacking the lashes on his back whose burning had since turned to itching; he would lay in the dark and daren't move for fear of something worse than death, for fear of a lifetime of decay, for fear so overwhelming it forced the breath from his lungs.

He would come to, eventually, and rouse himself from the waking nightmare, but there would be no relief in the smells and sounds of Tia Dalma's swamp, because his father was still trapped, and _he couldn't save him._ He'd had no time to weep or shudder – had no desire to – because Jack was dead alongside the Elizabeth he once knew, and there comes a point in time when the body must numb itself to the overpowering cold of grief. The humidity that clung to his hair and skin helped only in the slightest.

The bayou was no place for a blacksmith. It was a lonely fistful of the dark, sheltered from danger in something more unsettling; the subtle churn of insects, the water with its hat of rolling fog, and the low thrum, the voice of the swamp itself – no, there was no room for a metalworker here. Not in such lushly enigmatic foliage, and not in the sticky water of leeches, snakes, and old hoodoo corpses. This was not a place of steel; it was a place of something far more mutable.

"But dis Eart', she give us de same t'ings, William Turner."

Will only had time for a small, startled jump before Tia Dalma appeared beside him, looking out at her world and floating in her own sea of rags, beads, and strange poise.

He smirked sullenly. "Am I so easy to read?" Her own smirk was different.

"Dis ain't what'ch yer used to, William Turner – you been like a fish out o' water since you step your pretty foot in my little Zion." She grinned her inky smile. "Ya bes' learn to trust Tia Dalma – she c'n make you feel _mighty_ comfortable."

Will shifted in his spot and looked steadily out at the swamp, a faint flush rising in his cheeks; Tia Dalma let out a cackle, and inelegantly slapped the wood of the railing Will was leaning on – which, in turn, only startled him further.

"Oh, William Turner, you upstandin' lion, getting' all right shy," she laughed, her body turned now towards will; her teeth blended into the dark of her mouth and the night. She looked ethereal – Will, looking back at her, remembered she _was._ "Ain't a wonder you and Captain Jack Sparrow be companions."

"Hardly companions," Will was quick to point out, his eyes darkening slightly. There was guilt gnawing inside of him for thinking so ill of a dead man; yet there he was, signed on to a desperate mission to save that same dead man, spearheaded by another pirate whose state of life was still unexplained. "Besides, Jack could hardly be considered an 'upstanding lion'."

"Aye, you be right, dear William, de Captain is many miles from upstandin', but he _is_ a lion. Udderwise, why would ye be goin' to de ends of de sea and de Eart' to find 'im, eh?"

"Elizabeth." His answer, while not immediate, left no room for argument. He glanced over at the strange woman, who eyed him strangely indeed, before her lips smiled without the accompaniment of teeth and her eyes drank in the water her world offered her.

"Ahh. De woman, de one wit' your heart," she said knowingly, her voice as smooth as the dark. "She have many t'ings o' yours…yet she be real cubbitch, too."

"Cubbitch?" It had been hard enough to understand Tia Dalma's thick accent at first, but it seemed she also had her very own language buried beneath the heavy shellac of her cadence.

"She want what she can't have, dat girl." They watched a thick, barely decipherable insect pitch itself into the fog. "And dat be a dangerous game to play. 'Specially when she be gamblin' wit' de t'ings dat aren't hers."

The look she shot Will couldn't be more obvious. Much to Will's chagrin, the flush was back, and the heat in his cheeks was as unwelcome as it was harsh; quickly, he looked away. While he knew the darkness masked his face, he wasn't sure its cover withstood the notorious gaze of Tia Dalma.

"I don't know what you mean," he said tightly as his fingers slightly curled into themselves, an unwitting gesture. With a toss of her head and a knowing 'hmph', the woman smiled out beyond the railing. Somewhere in the distance, someone was singing a low, mournful song in a language Will couldn't understand; it made him shiver.

"Is that song for Jack, too?"

"Mebbe. Dere is always somet'in' to mourn, be it a man, or a soul, or a heart." The song continued. "Sometimes dey be de same t'ree t'ings."

"Sometimes. Not always," Will countered; he didn't know exactly what he was trying to argue, but something about the black woman's tone seemed to warrant a defence. She didn't miss this, and Will knew.

The solitary dirge, unwaveringly sung by a man in the bowels of the bayou, ghosted the deck – it seeped through the inky blackness, like wax dripping down the shaft of a candle, and collected around the feet of Will Turner and Tia Dalma. It burned cold, straight through Will's body; the words, to a white man's ears, were meaningless, but all could be found and understood below the depths of the haunting lament.

Tia Dalma moved closer to Will, brushing her arm against his as she stepped to his other side, letting her arm lightly encircle his back, before drawing her fingers to gently caress his shoulder. They stared out at the swamp.

"Dis world is full o' t'ings, o' such noises and visions," she murmured. "De dark and de light. It can be hard to see which one is de sun, and which one is de moon – your heart, William Turner, it don' know if it's de dead o' night, or de start o' dawn. De eyes o' your heart, dey been plucked out." Will's body stiffened; her grip on his shoulder tightened.

"But de blind men, dey see t'ings diff'rently – in time, dey see de t'ings no one else can. You be blind now, lion – but de rest, dey too busy lookin' wit' de eyes dey always had, instead o' listenin' or feelin' beyond d'eir vision. De sparkle o' de worl' will blind d'ose wit' eyes, wit'out 'em e'en knowin' it. Dey rely on sight dey don't e'en 'ave." She turned her body sensually against Will's, bosom against chest, and stared up into his face; heavy jewels and long fingernails reverently stroked his cheeks, and Will was frozen on the spot.

"You will see wit'out eyes, lion. Dat is not what ye need to fear."

With that, Tia Dalma brought her lips to Will's, the fingers on his cheeks suddenly more insistent. His eyes widened, staring at nothing in a fit of shock; his pupils refused to focus, and all he could taste and breath was incense, picante spice, ink and smoke and something bitter as the mournful song, the night, and the strange voodoo kiss wrapped him up and pierced his lungs. He didn't kiss back – he was paralyzed – and yet it wasn't for repulsion. He was ensnared by lips and, perchance, a spell…but it wasn't attraction, either.

Lips still lingering, Tia Dalma smiled, barely pulling away, her tongue bright pink against the black of her teeth and lips as she slyly licked them.

"What you need to fear, William Turner, is losin' dat heart o' yers all toge'dur – to anyt'ing. Or anyone. Blind or not, ya need it for yer journey." The song faded away, swallowed up by the gaping maw of the bayou.

Will could only stare at the woman as she turned to leave, strolling to the door of her shack.

"By de way," Tia Dalma said, looking back, "yer lady-love axed me t'get ya for her."

-

Once the shock of seeing Barbossa had worn off, the crew's ambience was bizarre, to say the least. Gibbs was halfway between curiosity and hatred; Pintel and Ragetti were shuffling to and fro, only once taking a break from their unease to chase Ragetti's wooden eye under the table; Elizabeth was quiet and staring down at her hat, squeezing it with her hands and turning it every so often in thought. Jack the undead monkey was, for once, quite calm. Barbossa, amused by all of this, and took a hearty bite out of his third apple of the night.

"Lovely hat, Miss Swann." Elizabeth looked up to see Barbossa turning the green apple in his hand to take another bite. "A bit too understated for me tastes, o' course, but a fine hate nonetheless."

Elizabeth said nothing and looked back down, her jaw clenching minutely. Barbossa bit into his apple again with a relished crunch.

"Who'd ye steal it off of?"

"Leave the lass alone, will ye?" The captain turned his head to Gibbs, who'd moved to stand beside Elizabeth; his tone and expression were as firm as his stance. Barbossa eyed the burly man.

"Mr. Gibbs, is it?" Gibbs nodded curtly. "Well, Mr. Gibbs, me and Miss Swann were just havin' ourselves a friendly chat – surely that warrants no concernin' on your part?"

"I don't think _Miss Swann_ is of a proper mood for a chat with ye, be it friendly or no."

"Aye?" Barbossa's stance became somewhat more threatening; this didn't go unnoticed by the remaining crew of the sunken _Black Pearl_, and the room became strangely quiet. "Ye be questionin' yer captain already, _Mr_. Gibbs?"

"I'm lookin' out for the welfare of Miss Swann, is all," Gibbs countered defensively; he felt nervous, suddenly, which only fuelled his stubbornness.

"If ye keep lookin' out as ye do, you'll soon be findin' yerself at the end of a plank for mutiny," Barbossa graveled out, reverberating danger and supremacy.

"I ain't no – !"

"Montego Bay."

Gibbs and Barbossa looked suddenly down at Elizabeth as she stood up, fitting her hat snugly on her head, looking at neither man.

"A man in Montego Bay. A dead man." She glanced at Gibbs, then turned her face to Barbossa. "He had no need of it, and I did."

Tipping her chin ever so slightly, Elizabeth returned Barbossa's stare with a squared jaw, challenge and match-point encrusted in the dirt under her eyes. The room – even the monkey – was silent.

Barbossa let out a sudden, sharp laugh.

"A smart idea, Miss Swann! Dead men have no need of worldly effects, do they?" he grinned, tilting his own impressive hat and crunching into his apple with renewed zest. Elizabeth looked at him strangely; Barbossa looked back, grin still evident, and he finished off his apple.

The distinct creak of the shack's wooden door captured Elizabeth's attention; Tia Dalma walked through the wall of humidity that pushed against the doorway, muttering something unintelligible under her breath. Will wasn't far behind her, and his expression was as hard to understand as Tia Dalma's garbled whispers.

"There you are," Elizabeth said, quickly leaving her spot between Gibbs and Barbossa to walk over to her fiancé. Will blinked and looked down at her – she offered him a small smile, and Will couldn't find it in him to smile back. Strangely, he still felt eyes on him; with a glance, he saw Barbossa looking at him, and with only a moment's hesitation, the captain strode purposefully across the room to fetch a banana. The man's recently acquired appetite seemed insatiable.

"Will?" He looked down, and with a bit of surprise, realized Elizabeth was still standing there. He didn't know what to say to her; even if he did, he had absolutely no idea _how_ to say it. They had exchanged as few words as possible on the way from that scene of horror in the middle of the water; something between them was stewing, and the pot would surely boil over in time. He wouldn't stoke the embers, though, not now – Will was starting to be more cautious with people as of late.

"Miss Dalma said you wanted to see me." There was a bizarre formality in his tone that had taken root on the boat ride to Tia Dalma's shack, and it had been steadily growing since. Elizabeth looked at Will, but didn't quite meet his eyes.

"Yes. I just…I wanted to talk to you."

"Well, go on then." His tone softened, but only slightly. Elizabeth looked sideways at Barbossa – he was looking at her. She turned her gaze, none too slowly, back to Will.

"Not here, with everyone around. They're hardly company for conversation."

"They've been good enough company for the past few months," Will said quickly, "and they'll serve as good enough company to find Jack."

"I wasn't doubting that, but – "

"But what? Do you crave a _civilized_ word, is that it?" Will's voice was low, and rather terse. "I'm afraid you won't find a civilized _thing_ in the company of pirates." Elizabeth was starting to look exasperated.

"Will, you're not a…" Both temporarily arrested, Elizabeth let the last word snuff itself out on her tongue. Will's Adam's apple bobbed once as he swallowed, and Elizabeth looked down, tension in her body. They were both silent for a moment.

"Your words, Elizabeth. _Your_ words, not mine."

With that, he strode across the length of the shack, stepped out front, and disappeared from the scene. Elizabeth, embarrassed at Will's quick absence of her, suddenly felt as if all eyes were on her; she glanced at Barbossa, who was indeed watching the muted spectacle. He smirked at, clearly amused.

Tightening her jaw and looking away, Elizabeth went up the stairs near the back of Tia Dalma's strange cottage, as opposite from Will as possible.

-

_Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's death for me! We're shackled and gutted and swallowed and shot, drink up me hearties yo ho! We're stabbed as we plunder and left out to rot, drink up me hearties yo ho-!_

Ahh, dear Miss Swann, I hope you're not offended that I've changed your lovely ditty. I figured it'd be more fitting to me now, eh strumpet?

By the way, did Will teach you to kiss like that, luv? I thought I could taste some of that stubbornness in there. It was the same way Bootstrap kissed me – 'swhy I wondered.

Now. _This _is a strange place ye've brought me to, Beastie.

-

Reviews and criticism are _awesome._ Take care, friends.

-Chibikat


End file.
